


where the heart rests

by hashtagartistlife



Series: 686 Fix-it fic [1]
Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M, i have no less than three post-686 fic happening, look 686 was. awful. but the angstlord in me is having a field day, this will have a happy ending tho i promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 17:25:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8111032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hashtagartistlife/pseuds/hashtagartistlife
Summary: The war ends in less than four days. The aftermath takes.... much longer. Ten years longer.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A fix-it fic, of sorts. Canon-compliant. This is me, trying to grieve, trying to heal, trying to make sense of the nonsense that was the final Bleach chapter. I know there have been an influx of sad IR fics over the past month as people try to come to terms with this ending, and I promise I’ll contribute something less angsty soon for those who want to ignore the last chapter altogether. But the first step for me personally in any sort of healing process has always been understanding the cause of the pain. So this is me, trying to understand what could possibly have happened in the void ten years for us to reach… this. 
> 
> This fic is canon-compliant, with all the heartbreaking implications that phrase entails. Yes, it’s going to be painful to read as an IR shipper. But despite that, I hope you’ll give it a go, because the ending to this fic (hopefully, if I’ve done my job right) embodies everything that the IR ship has ever embodied for me: faith, hope, and an unwavering courage and determination to forge on against impossible odds. The ending to this fic embodies why I won’t give up shipping them, even after ‘canon’ has ground us into the dust. In a way, I’m almost glad canon’s gone so completely off the rails; it’s given me a chance to explore the worst possible outcome for the IR ship, and demonstrate how even from these circumstances they’ll find their way back to each other. Across a thousand worlds, across a thousand lifetimes, in every AU and version of reality, in every single grain of possibility and every alternate future that Yhwach has ever seen—none of that matters. In all of those instances, they’ll find a way. As Rukia once told Ichigo all those chapters ago—they’ll always make their way back to each other, through whatever means necessary. 
> 
> And I believe her. I believe them. 
> 
> I want to invite you to believe with me.

It was supposed to end with this.

It was supposed to end with _him_ ; the final enemy, the antithesis of all they stood for. It was supposed to end here, and they were supposed to rebuild. To heal. It was all supposed to be sunlit from now on. Everything, all of it, all their struggles and conflicts and misery, was supposed to end with Yhwach—

 _So then why_ , Rukia wonders, _is it still raining?_

 

* * *

 

When he stumbles back through the portal, Ishida and Renji on either side of him, the first thing Rukia notices are his eyes. She feels a trickle of something cold and fearful down her spine. She’s seen those eyes before on him. She’s seen those eyes before, and they are not the eyes of a victor.

“Is he—“ she starts, but he cuts her off before she can finish, getting to his knees before her and sweeping a hand over Inoue’s forehead.

“Is she alright?” he asks, voice hoarse.

“I—yes, for now,” Rukia answers, taken aback, and he raises his head to meet her gaze. “I performed some kido on her to stem the superficial bleeding, but I do not think her injuries are life-threatening. Ichigo, is he—gone? What happened?”

The force of his eyes on hers is draining, heavy, like a weighted cloak pinning her down. “Are _you_ alright?” he asks, and he reaches a hand out as if to touch her face; before he makes contact, however, a thready voice from between them halts his movements.

“Kurosaki-kun, I’m so glad you’re ok!” In her lap, Inoue has opened her eyes and is staring up at them weakly, a tremulous smile on her face. Rukia automatically drops into healer mode, fussing over their fallen comrade even as she feels Ichigo’s gaze burning into the top of her head.

“Inoue, you shouldn’t talk, you’ve lost a lot of blood—“

“I’m alright, Kuchiki-san,” she breathes, and she struggles to sit up; both Rukia and Ichigo reach for her in a flare of panic when she falls back into Rukia’s lap, coughing blood. She wipes her mouth with her hand and looks up at the two of them, smiling a beautiful, happy, relieved smile. “I’m fine. Oh, Kurosaki-kun, I worried so much. I’m so glad you’re alright!”

A pause. “Yeah,” Ichigo replies, after some hesitation, and Rukia looks up sharply but does not say anything. He’s turned towards Inoue now, and the intensity which he’d directed at her earlier has softened. Something cold clutches round her heart. Despite everything, Rukia can’t help but think of a fire going out; _dying._ Suddenly, for reasons she can’t quite fathom, she’s scared _._ “Yeah, Inoue. I’m fine now. Get some rest.”

Inoue nods, and once again settles heavily into Rukia’s lap; her face is peaceful, the pain lines around her brows and eyes smoothed out. Ichigo stands up, and Rukia bites back a protest. She does not want to disturb Inoue, not when she’s only just managed to find some peace. But she keeps her eyes trained on him as he rejoins Renji and Ishida, starts picking his way down the ruined stairs unsteadily.

 _I’m so glad you’re alright,_ Inoue had said.

She doesn’t think she’s ever seen him _less alright_ in her life.

 

* * *

 

The aftermath of the war is devastating.

And Kurosaki Ichigo can’t feel any of it.

Uryuu had told him his father had shown up, but Isshin is nowhere to be seen. Ishida and Renji are long behind him, helping Inoue and Rukia down the stairs. He doesn’t know where Chad is; he doesn’t know where Ganjuu is. He doesn’t know where anyone is, and he doesn’t want to look; he might find their faces on one of the many bodies strewn about the battlefield like so many broken dolls. It’s all he can do to put one foot in front of the other, mechanical; it’s all he can do to keep going.

_Where?_

The thought pierces through him like an arrow; his footsteps falter. Where was he going? What was there left to do now? Yhwach was gone; the world was ostensibly safe. What they needed now was reconstruction; he looks down at the sword in his hands. Sharp and dangerously balanced, edge honed to a razor-thinness to slide through bone and sinew, to cut away the heart. Suddenly, he wants to throw it away and never see it again.

What the Seireitei needed now was healing and rebuilding; hands that grip a sword like his had no place in that process. What they needed now wasn’t him.

(What happens to a soldier, he wonders, when there are no more wars to win? When there are no more fights to fight, when there’s no-one left to protect? Is that why the world clung so fiercely to conflict? What happens to people like him, in the aftermath?)

He stands in the middle of the rubble and stares out blankly at the carnage. He thinks that he should feel something, _anything_ , but the emotions won’t come. The fight is done, but his fingers are still curled tight around Zangetsu and he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to let go. The world is entirely too silent. He wants to feel sad for the lost lives; he wants to be mad at himself for not managing to protect them; he wants to feel elated that he’s won.

(Has he?)

But he’s blank.

He’s had enough, already. He just wants to go home.

The trouble is, he has no idea where that is anymore.

 

* * *

 

Ukitake-taichou doesn’t make it.

His is one of the first bodies they find; he is exactly where they have left him, sprawled across the floor of Mayuri’s lab. Kiyone clutches Sentaro’s arm; Kyouraku-soutaichou bows his head. Kaien-dono’s words echo in Rukia’s ears. _Do not die alone, Kuchiki, whatever you do, don’t die alone_. In the end, it’s Ise-fukutaichou who manages to close his eyelids with shaky hands, silent tears tracking down her cheeks. They all stand there a long while before they move on.

His is one of the first bodies they find. It isn’t the last by far.

By nightfall, survivors have more or less all been accounted for; their biggest unscathed building (the eighth division barracks) has been turned into a makeshift hospital and there is the beginnings of a mass burial outside. In the absence of her Captain, it falls to Rukia to tally up the missing members of her division. Each unmatched name on her list feels like a siren announcing her failure. _Don’t die alone._ Did all these men and women have comrades around them when they fell? Did they manage to leave their hearts behind? Or was she the only one who came out unscathed, once again? _Don’t die alone, Kuchiki. Never die alone._

She looks up from the list and casts her gaze out over the room. Inoue sleeps in a cot not far away from her; Ishida sits next to her, looking like hell, refusing aid. His hand rests on the linen bare inches from her fingers. She meets his eyes and he shakes his head a fraction. The worry she’d been trying to swallow down all evening rises in her gullet, acrid, bitter.

Kyouraku-soutaichou bustles in, and she snaps to attention.

“Let’s not bother with the formalities, Kuchiki. You know why I’m here.”

“With all due respect, soutaichou, I do not.”

His eyes flicker to the dark circles under her eyes, the numerous cuts and bruises yet to be healed. The list held in a death-grip in her slender fingers. The fukutaichou badge bound tight to her arm.

“You’re the only one that can find him,” he says, and she doesn’t need any more explanation. “Nanao-chan can take care of your division for a while.”

She unwinds the fukutaichou badge from her arm and runs.

 

* * *

 

Finding him is never hard. She can always feel him, under her skin, in her veins, steady like a heartbeat. It has nothing to do with reiatsu, or visualisations of spirit ribbons or her own prowess with kido; it has everything to do with the kind of people they are, twinned souls.

She catches him wandering about the place where they had their very first mutual parting, the memory of his smile and hers as she bade him thanks both distant and crystal-clear in her mind. He wears no such smile now. The gaze he turns to her has a curiously blank quality to it.

“Ichigo.”

“Rukia.”

“…What are you _doing_ out here, Ichigo?” she tries, and he just gestures vaguely to the air.

“Oh, you know. I was trying to go back.”

“Back _where?”_ she asks, before realising what a stupid question that was. “By yourself?”

There’s a short silence.

“Well, of course. Do you even need me here anymore?”

The bitterness in his voice takes her by surprise; he won’t meet her gaze. Abruptly, she realises Zangetsu is nowhere to be seen.

“Ichigo, where is your—where is _Zangetsu?_ ”

“Around.” He still won’t meet her gaze. Anger flares in the pit of her stomach; she cuts in front of him and forces him to look at her.

“What are you—what kind of an answer is that?” she demands, and when he looks like he wants to look away again she grabs his face with both hands and _makes_ him face her. “Ichigo, what’s—what _happened?”_

He flinches away from her touch. Rukia withdraws her hands from him like she’s been burned. For a moment, there is an impasse between the two of them, he avoiding gaze once more and she studying the guilty lines of his face. It’s a long while before he speaks.

“It’s—it’s too quiet.”

She says nothing, only waits for him to elaborate. He finally turns to face her, then, and his face is carefully blank once more.

“It’s too quiet, Rukia. _In my head._ It’s—it hasn’t been like this since—well.”

Understanding dawns in her; before she can stop herself, her hands shoot out to clench around one of his wrists, as if to reassure herself he’s still there. “You—your power—“

“I’m still a shinigami, don’t you worry,” he interrupts; if his voice sounds more than a little mocking, she ignores it. “I just… don’t hear anyone, anymore. Old Man Zangetsu, the hollow, whatever—it’s just…. quiet.”

He doesn’t pull away from her this time, but she lets go; her hand falls limply to her side and so does his. He looks down at the ground, and, so softly it’s barely audible, she hears: “Maybe it’s for the best.”

There’s a sickening feeling of the ground giving way beneath her. She only just restrains the urge to grab him by the shoulders and _shake._ “What… do you mean, Ichigo?”

“I—“ he straightens up, only to fidget restlessly; his hands look like they’ve lost where it is they’re supposed to be. His eyes are distant, so far away that Rukia doesn’t think she can see whatever horizon it is he’s seeing. “—never mind. Forget I said that—“

“Ichigo, you—“

“I said forget it!” he snaps. Then, a second, two, before the tension flees his body and he slumps. He heaves out a long, long breath as Rukia holds hers. “Fuck—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—“

He sounds as lost as Rukia feels; she’s always been adept at knowing what he needs, but he has never been so unreadable as he is now. Something between them has shifted; had, indeed, been shifting for a long time. May even be shifting, still. She does not know if this new ground beneath them is stable enough yet for her to reach out as she has always done, and so she stays the hand that is itching to bridge the gap between them, to touch his face and offer comfort.

“I’m just—so— _tired_ , Rukia,” he whispers. “I—I need to go _home._ ”

 _Home._ The word sets an ache resonating through her chest. She thinks of the Kuchiki manor and the Squad 13 barracks and a tiny closet in the human world.

“… Soon, I promise,” she says, but why does it feels like a lie in her mouth? “But for now, you should come back to the Fourth to be healed, Ichigo. Your friends are worried for you.”

He seems to return to earth at that, just a little bit; his eyes lose that faraway edge and are instead filled with nothing but weariness. Wordlessly, he looks around for Zangetsu, finding him stuck in the rubble a few feet away and slinging him onto his back with a touch of reluctance. He falls into step beside her, and, wordlessly, she leads the way; like a boat to a lighthouse, he follows her through the dark.


End file.
